


Consequences of Friday Night Events

by lully_woodstock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual John Watson, John is a Mess, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Sherlock is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26183953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lully_woodstock/pseuds/lully_woodstock
Summary: An email from Bill Murray about the army mates, a half-empty glass of scotch, and a horror movie on the TV.Things were weird at night when John left the flat without warning and came back only at four in the morning. But it was even weirder that everything he had heard about John in the last hours came from deductions and from an email sent to him by James Sholto.What was going on? They needed to talk, but they also needed to heal themselves, and those two things didn't fit together, did they?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, past James Sholto/John Watson - Relationship
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	Consequences of Friday Night Events

**Author's Note:**

> "oh my god" is the most accurate thing I could use to describe my mind right now.  
> I wasn't planning on writing this, but when it was started I already knew I'd post it here, something like my personal challenge.  
> I really don't think many people will be interested, but if you're reading please consider English is not my first language and let me know if something doesn't sound right.  
> It was also very hard imagining how the characters would phrase things they wouldn't really say, since they don't talk about feelings with each other and that's essentially what this fic is. So forgive me if you think is not accurate enough.  
> And... I hope you like it! Thank you!

When Sherlock came back to the flat in Baker Street, John wasn't there and that was odd. He had been out for almost fourteen hours in a row and since John was working at the clinic, the only words that they exchanged were brief statements through the phone. He was fairly certain he hadn't missed a message about going out tonight, so, after he certified that no notes were left to let him know where his friend was, he started to deduce the flat.

Firstly, he looked at the coffee table. On one side there was John's closed laptop and on the other a half-empty glass of scotch. The laptop was in front of the right side of the couch where John usually sat, so he must have used it - and not while he drank, judging by the distance that separated the two objects. He reached the laptop and opened it, testing the same passcode from the last time. It unlocked. Seemed like John didn't try to keep him away from his things this time, or didn't care enough.

What greeted him in the lighted screen of the unlocked device was an email from one of John's army friends, if he remembered it correctly, called Bill Murray. Something about a reunion "just like old times."

It made sense to Sherlock why John would have wanted a drink after this. He might not be good with human nature, but he understood that the events army-related were traumatic to John, no matter how much the man missed war and adrenaline. However, it didn't explain his sudden disappearance, so the detective resumed his search.

The television remote control was moved from its usual spot, thrown up in Sherlock's armchair. Sherlock grabbed it and turned the TV on. A creepy scene was passing, and he guessed it was a horror movie. Weird. John preferred action movies or romantic comedies, so something was different tonight.

Sherlock didn't know what was going on or where John was, and he didn't like not knowing

> **22:36**
> 
> **John, where are you? Why you left the flat?**

He didn't sign because John would know it was him. Or would have known, if he had received the message, which he didn't because Sherlock's number had been _blocked_. Shit.

He went to the kitchen but found nothing unusual besides the bottle of Red Label he was already expecting.

The first person he thought about calling was Lestrade, but that was clearly instinctive since the DI spent the last hours in the same investigation he did. Then he thought about Mycroft, the person that sometimes decided to follow them through CCTV cameras. He immediately forwent the idea, and then reminded himself that John was _somewhere_ doing _something_ that could be dangerous, that if he hadn't been kidnapped (he didn't want to believe it to be true despite some facts pointing to that hypothesis).

So he called his stalker brother.

"Sherlock! To what do I owe the pleasure of-" the older started and was cut off.

"You know why, John's missing," he stated quickly. Small-talk words gave him terrible headaches.

Mycroft made a noise that could be considered a laugh, and answered: "Not to me."

_Idle bastard._

"Where is he? Is he alright? Is he _with you?_ "

"He is not _with me_ nor in immediate danger, though 'alright' is not the exact word I would use."

"Where is he?" Sherlock hissed impatiently.

"I don't think I should tell you."

" _Why_ you wouldn't tell me that?"

On one side, there was Sherlock, impatient, nearly desperate, and confused. On the other, was Mycroft, not impatient, yet almost _upset_ for his brother.

"Because," he started and let out a heavy breath, "he might be giving you two what you both need."

"What I need is him, right now, in the flat! Where is he? Tell me!" Sherlock demanded on a loud voice and was sure that he had probably woken up the neighbors, but couldn't care less.

"No, Sherlock. I'm sorry. He is fine and must be back by the morning. Enjoy a few hours of being on your own like old times. And, please, do us a favor and don't drug yourself."

Mycroft hung up and Sherlock was mad. Utterly raging. First, because Mycroft knew he _couldn't_ drug himself without drugs, which he didn't have thanks to John, and had said that like, what? A cruel remind? Then his dear brother wouldn't tell him _where John was_ \- the main reason he called, he remarked in his head. He was also furious because he didn't want to be on his own, alone like old times, not like thirty-four first years of his life, not like during his fake death, not like after John's marriage and not like after Mary's death. Not while there was someone he could call "friend."

Finally, he was mad because "he must be back by the morning." Was John back to dating? Why he didn't say anything or left a message?

_Maybe he just can't stand you anymore. He did jump off the boat in the first opportunity after your death, didn't he? I wouldn't be surprised, after six years putting up with your bloody shit._

"Shut up."

That didn't make sense, there was a half-empty glass of alcohol on the coffee table. For what reason John would need to get drunk while watching a horror movie after seeing an email about his army friends, only to change his mind and leave the flat for the night?

Why was Sherlock so worried about the _why's?_ and not about the _where?_

 _You can't find him if you don't know_ why _because it might be your fault. And we know that you will shatter if he rejects you again._

"I said shut up."

_He is probably just in a pub. Or by now he might even be at a hotel shagging some boring person that isn't you._

Sherlock growled and tightened his hands in his temples.

"Stop. Stop. Stop."

_Will you ever be enough?_

"SHUT. UP."

The voice stopped.

Sherlock wanted to rush downstairs, grab downstairs and look for John around all London, but the voice in his head was right. Understanding feelings was hard for him, and the fact that they were John's feelings made it all harder to understand.

Mycroft said John would be fine and back in the morning. He chose to believe this wasn't one of the rare times his brother was wrong while he admitted to himself that no, he couldn't bear to have harshness aimed at him again by the person he cared for most in the world.

So he didn't go downstairs and left the flat. Instead, he picked up his violin and started playing Nocturne No. 20.

°°°°°

John came back four in the morning.

When he entered the flat, Sherlock was still playing the violin, restless, unable to sleep. As he watched the soldier pass the door to the living room, one million questions crossed his mind.

_Are you alright? Why did you leave? Where were you? Are going to leave me again? Who was with you? Are you mad at me? Did I do something? Why didn't you say anything?_

_Will I ever be enough?_

He wanted to ask all of them, but it didn't sound safe to do so. John left the flat without warning in the night and came back four in the morning. Something was wrong and Sherlock couldn't ask anything because he didn't think he would like the answer, not now.

But his mind never stopped, and deductions followed the questions, bringing some of the unwanted answers.

_He looks a bit dizzy. Smells strongly like alcohol, so he drank too much though he must have stopped a couple of hours ago and will definitely remember anything that happens now. He is sweaty so he had to do physical exercise - while wearing his clothes since they are a little wet too. But he isn't breathing heavily which means he stopped the exercise at least a few minutes ago. Sex? Not the reason for the sweat, he wouldn't have had his clothes on. Fight? No, he isn't bruised. Walking? Seems appropriate enough. But he didn't walk the entire way back or he would be much more tired. He walked first and then took a cab from wherever he was to the flat._

_His shoes have dirt. He walked somewhere unpaved. A garden? A road. Why_ the hell _did John walk on an unpaved road?_

When John passed on his way to the corridor, not glancing up - presumably thinking that could stop Sherlock's deductions if they weren't real in his head -, Sherlock smelled him better. Beneath the alcohol, there it was. _Cum._ The detective could predict that a drunk John would have sex, but he wouldn't have said it was with a man, that a half-sexually repressed John would allow it to himself - which made his thoughts even louder.

_Will I ever be enough?_

He wanted to talk to his friend, to understand what was going on, but kept his mouth shut because even he and his emotionally unversed brain realized a John in that state wouldn't answer, and he didn't want to press. So he just let John walk inside the bathroom and lock himself away from him, and then he went silently to his own bedroom to be out of the other man's way.

Sherlock decided to give them both what Mycroft thought they needed: time to heal themselves.

°°°°°

Seeing the name James Sholto in his email inbox close to noon made everything more and less clear at the same time, and he wasn't sure if he liked it. John had probably been to the major's house last night if he judged the dirty shoes.

_A man who lives isolated. John had to go to a busier area if he wanted to take a cab, so ended up walking on an unpaved road after leaving Sholto's house._

_Do I want to know what happened?_

He didn't think so, but he wanted to know what Sholto had to say, so he opened the email anyway.

> **To:** Sherlock Holmes (scienceofdeduction@email.com)
> 
> **From:** James Sholto (majorjsholto@email.com)
> 
> **Subject:** John Watson
> 
> Hello, Sherlock.
> 
> I hope the subject isn't too outrageous and will catch your attention instead. I had to find your email on your website, The Science of Deduction, to write for you because I consider this to be important and you might too.
> 
> John called me last night. He said he wanted to spend the night somewhere unlike London and asked if I would let him come to my place. I couldn't say no to that, could I?

_Yes, you could. I had to say no to him twice. It was awful, but I managed anyway, so yes. You ought to have._

> So I drove myself to where he said he was. He didn't speak in the car, but, well, I've known him for a long time and have already seen him like that before, back in the army. I'm sure you've heard of "Three Continents Watson" and know what it implies. Reaching said status is not that easy in the army if you're not amenable to... various options. And I'm counting that you are a detective as good as he makes you look like and had already known those things.
> 
> But I also know he only is "Three Continents Watson" when he believes he has no other option. Being in love isn't easy for anybody, but when you have a history like his it's just ten times harder. Having your heart broken is not something you can fully recover from, you just put the pieces together and move on. And he did it way too many times. It's not working anymore. It wasn't working at the time either.
> 
> I saw at his wedding that you love him like I once did. It didn't end well for us and guilt ate him alive for months even if there was no way he could prevent what happened - that's why he asked to see me earlier today. He feels responsible for everyone else's suffering even when he can't control it, and when he can't handle his feelings they go out wrongly.
> 
> Our story mustn't be of your concern. John already proved it is of his, and that is more than enough for me. But it is too late for us now. So I'll just ask you to make him aware of how much you care for him because he doesn't seem to acknowledge that. We talked about this last night, but I'm afraid he didn't think I was being sincere. Hearing from it from you might reassure him, and perhaps then he'll start to get over insecurity and remorse.
> 
> Keep it simple though. He is grateful that you saved his life but still thinks that faking death was excessive. Try to make tea more often, or clean the fridge, or talk about things he likes instead. Hopefully, you will be the one to keep him right.
> 
> Thank you for being there for him.
> 
> Major Sholto

So Sholto was asking him to care explicitly and not dramatically for John. It shouldn't be a problem, since he _already_ cared for him, but "simple" didn't fit Sherlock. Cook, clean the flat, talk about things John liked. It wouldn't be a problem, indeed, but a bit hard.

_He worths the effort. He is special, isn't he?_

Maybe Sherlock could even mirror some of John's actions towards him, like touching and praising more often.

But not immediately. _Give him just a few more hours._

°°°°°

Seventeen hours after John came back to the flat, he still hadn't left his room, so Sherlock found himself holding a tray containing a plate with three toasts, a cup of tea with honey, a glass of water, and a painkiller, all arranged by himself. Maybe John wouldn't talk to him, but he hadn't shown up to eat yet and Sherlock was getting really worried, so in the middle of refrigerated heads and fingers - which he would have removed on account of Sholto's wish - he looked for things that helped during hangovers and was quite proud of himself.

Pride didn't stop him from wandering in the stairs before John's bedroom door, and he had to count to ten three times ante knocking, only to have no answer.

"John?"

He waited. No sound from inside. He wasn't sure what he would do if John were still asleep, but opened the door anyway, ignoring that he was shaking with anxiety.

The curtains were closed so the only faint light rays illuminating the room came from the corridor lamp. It was dark enough that the only thing he could see was John _on the floor_. Despair settled while his stomach sunk.

"John!" He placed the tray on the bed and rushed to the body. As he moved closer, he could see that John's blue eyes were open staring at the ceiling and he had to fight the dots in his vision. Sherlock pressed two fingers in John's neck to take his pulse, but the man's breath hit his arm before he started counting.

His fingers buzzed along with the waves of John's sorrow voice.

"I'm not dead, Sherlock," and Sherlock decided to ignore the sarcasm in his voice. He moved his hand from the doctor's neck to the left shoulder, pressing it lightly. _Do you see what I'm doing, John? I'm letting you know that I like having you around._

"John, what are you doing on the floor?"

"Lying."

" _Why_ are you lying on the floor? Why aren't you on the bed?"

John closed his eyes and Sherlock didn't think he would answer, but after almost a minute he heard a simple "I don't deserve it."

_Will we ever be enough?_

"Why are you saying this? What happened? Is it about last night?"

Until 24 hours before, everything was fine, they were settling things back to normal. Now John thought that leaving without warning to get drunk, suck other people's dick, and meet his ex made him unworthy of lying on the bed?

This time the detective was sure he wasn't getting a reply, so he tightened his grip around the shoulder he was holding and used his other hand to seize John's right arm.

"What are you doing?" John asked with an annoyed voice, eyes still shut.

"I will put you in bed. If you keep lying like that on the floor you'll have a terrible backache and I don't think we have enough analgesic."

_Neither I want you to have a backache._

"Maybe I'll just let it ache then," but stood up himself, only leaning against Sherlock to maintain the balance, and sat on the bed beside the tray, barely noticing it. Sherlock turned the lights on and took a seat in front of him so they would be facing each other, even if John still had his eyes closed.

The sociopath pulled the tray and John frowned when he finally saw it. He kept staring at the toasts and the drinks like they were a magic trick he was trying to understand. 

"Where did it come from? Mrs. Hudson isn't here."

"She didn't make it, I did," Sherlock announced letting the self-satisfaction overflow just a bit, but uncertainty still present.

"Why?" demanded John with an alarmed tone. 

And now Sherlock was starting to get hurt. Shouldn't have he done it? He forced himself not to hide emotions through his countenance like he usually did under John's sight. 

"Because you haven't eaten anything since you came back, and I'm worried."

John looked up and saw concern mixed with hurt in Sherlock's face. Or he must have since the frown lessened.

"Thank you," but didn't move to pick up anything from the tray. Sherlock exhaled tiredly.

"John, eat. Please."

"Well, have _you_ eaten something today?"

He had, actually. Howsoever he took one of the toasts and bit and chewed scenically to prove a point. This was important, John had to eat. _Keep it simple._

The blonde looked really annoyed at that but started to eat anyway, and soon Sherlock lost him to thoughts again. If it depended on John, last night would fall into Limbo, apparently.

"So..." Sherlock attempted a few minutes later, while his the other man was finishing his tea. "Sholto emailed me today."

And even though John's attention had been flying from the wall to the ceiling, never landing on him, that caught his attention immediately.

"What?" and the alarmed tone was back. "What did he say?"

_What did he say? I hope not enough for you to run away from the flat and never look in my face again. Would you do that because of a revealed secret?_

"Not much I didn't already know," Sherlock chose as reassuring words. John didn't down his guard. Anxiously, supposed to work it out, next words came. "He only said that you called him last night, and asked me to make you aware that I care about you."

"Forget everything he said," John replied quickly and definitely as if those were his final words on a decision.

Sherlock was starting to get jaded from asking "what's" and "why's," but couldn't help himself. He had to know and John wouldn't tell him anything if not pressed.

"Why should I?"

"Because it doesn't matter." Sherlock kept staring in the hopes John - who, in its turn, was _not facing him again_ \- would take the hint and explain without him having to question. He did, thankfully. "Whatever he said, it doesn't matter. Just... delete the email, forget it. And don't worry about me, I needed just a night out. I'm sorry I didn't leave a note, I'll remember to let you know whenever the next time is."

"The next time?" Sherlock inquired in what he believed to be his least judging voice. Still, John shut again, taking one more sip of his tea. "Will there be _a next time_?"

John just shrugged as if to say _if I can't promise you there won't, then there will_ . And, okay, Sherlock should accept that their communication had always been non-verbal and just leave him alone (he had even eaten because Sherlock asked him to, _for bloody's sake_ ) because John was alright and wouldn't disappear like that again and for some reason wasn't interested in him anymore, so it would be easier to _just leave_.

But where has "just leaving" taken them?

"John!"

"It helps me. It really does."

"Does it? Ten minutes ago you were laid on the floor, I wouldn't call it help. What even is _it_?"

"Why do you care?"

"We're friends, John! Friends help and care about each other!"

"Sherlock, we are friends, but not of that kind. You didn't have to bring me food, so why did you?"

Sherlock was completely lost and confused. He hadn't misread major's words, they were manageable and someone with his intellect should be entirely capable of understanding what _keep it simple, try to make tea more often_ meant.

"I told you, Sholto asked me."

"He asked you to make me tea?"

"Among other things."

"Okay. Thank you. The tea was delicious. Now you don't have to do anything else he told you to, forget the email."

"I won't unless you give me a plausible reason."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

He got up, processing the words, and refusing to believe in them.

One second. Two. Three.

John was serious. He really wasn't going to talk to him.

_Keep your mouth shut. Leave the room. He's right, this isn't the kind of friendship you have. Get out._

"Oh, I see." _Fuck._ "You didn't want me to know you and Sholto used to be together? That you were with him last night? That you are _bisexual_? You are the only one who sees this as a problem, John!"

Sherlock regretted instantly. Too late now.

John also stood up and was ready to retort anything thrown at him. _Good, at least now he will speak to me._

"Well, it's not my fault my father was a homophobic asshole."

"Exactly, it's not. Stop reducing yourself to that!"

"Stop rephrasing Sholto, Sherlock. I told you to get over it, it doesn't matter."

" _How_ does it not matter, John?"

John opened his mouth to scream an explanation, but stopped in the last second and took a deep breath to continue without yelling.

"It doesn't matter because it's _not true_. It's not his fault, but James doesn't understand, so what he said to you, whatever it was, it's not true."

"So you're telling me you two don't have a history?" Sherlock required, knowing he was choosing to be rude. "Or that you aren't bisexual?"

"What I'm telling you, Sherlock, is that you don't have to do things you don't want just because someone else asked you to do it for me."

_Oh._

The statement did caught him off-guard. He wasn't expecting the change os subject from Sholto to him, and he couldn't help but wonder for how much longer he was going to be the tiny beetle bothering John, buzzing in his ears until the soldier got sick of him and waved his hand to get him out of his life forever.

_Will I ever be enough?_

John somehow sensed trouble and gave two shy steps to reach him, putting his doctor's steady and minutely hands in the curve of Sherlock's neck on a soothing act and to make them stare at each other's eyes.

"Sherlock. I know that you care about me. And you don't have to make tea or buy milk or whatever to prove it, because that's what civilian and boring people do, and we're neither of them. There isn't much one can do in the middle of the desert with his army companion, so James and I kept things simple. It was nice, but it doesn't suit my lifestyle anymore, much less it suits you. You understand this? You can do small things to make me or Mrs. Hudson or Greg happy if you want to, and they'll be immensely welcomed, but remember that we already know who you are and that's why we like you. Fine?"

"Fine."

Sherlock was overwhelmed with affection and relief. _This was it, then. He just... doesn't want to force me to do boring things?_ A few pieces were still missing though, and he wouldn't let himself be delighted by how wonderful the touch in his neck felt until _everything_ was clear.

"Sholto hasn't lied. I know what he said about your sexuality is true. Or that you feel guilty about things that are not your responsibility." His intention was no longer pushing John to avow deep feelings or to tell him what was going on. Now he wanted them to jus talk, so he forced himself to enlighten his tone.

John now seemed much more unsure of himself and moved to step backward, but Sherlock was faster and held him by his wrists. The soldier froze and avoid his eyes as he spoke.

"I know my sexuality looks like a problem to me, but it only bothers me when is an inconvenience."

"When?"

"When I fall in love with the wrong person." Sherlock didn't know how that was supposed to make him feel. Joyous if this was John's way of subtly saying he loved Sherlock. Rejected, maybe, if he gave attention to the "wrong person" part. Or was John referring to Sholto? Was that what he got for pushing too hard? He was ready to free his friend from his grip instead of demanding an explanation again when John spoke. "Things didn't end well between James and me, and that's partly why I called him last night to cry out sorry's, and also why I had to take a cab back at four in the morning. We're still kind of friends, but it's complex, and things didn't end well with Mary too." He lifted a hand to trace Sherlock's scarred eyebrow. "I have already hurt you, I'm not willing to make the same mistake again."

He stepped away from Sherlock after being released from the grasp and took the tray on the bed, handing it to an astonished man.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

And laid with closed eyes again, this time on the bed, fortunately. 

And this was it.

He had to say something, he wasn't just going to go downstairs. John was on the bed now, but that didn't mean he was feeling better. Actually, even a sociopathic Sherlock could tell that the man was _not_ feeling better, just... defeated. Still, he didn't know what to do. Working frailty out was Ella's job, not his - for obvious reasons.

So what could he do?

 _Will it ever be enough?_ It would _have_ to be.

What do people find comforting? Physical touch, only if they're accordingly intimate with the person starting the contact. Were they "accordingly intimate"? Yes, probably, they have _lived together_ for a long time and were best friends or something. So what kind of physical touch? Hugging was the safest option.

He put the almost empty tray - John hadn't taken the pill - on the bedside table and laid quietly beside his friend, curling up in John's body tentatively.

"Sherlock?" John tensed up, too much out of his comfort zone.

_Demonstrate affection._

"I love you, John."

It wasn't the safest thing to _say_ , but Sherlock thought it was true and appropriate enough, so he only expected John wouldn't get up, call him mad and run away. _Injudicious._

The man in his arms turned to face him and studied his clear eyes for long seconds. He wasn't sure what was being searched but was glad when whatever-it-was was found, because John _smiled_. It was just a jerk of lips, one-sided, but yet.

"I love you, Sherlock."

"My number is still blocked, though."

John grimaced. "I'm sorry. I'll unblock it later. I think last night I just... I don't know."

And they settled like this, lying down side by side on the fluffy mattress, where nothing else mattered. Staring at each other's eyes for minutes.

"Why you were watching a horror movie?"

John huffed an ironic laugh. "I turned the TV on after reading Bill's email. I started watching something funny, but it wasn't making me feel better, so I put on something different to see if it worked. Turns out it was The Exorcist."

Sherlock chuckled softly. _Of course._

At some point, John's gaze turned to his mouth, like it had many times before, but this time he kept looking at it with clear intentions. In a blink, they were kissing, and it felt right and good and _oh, God, yes,_ and nevertheless suppositional.

Maybe tomorrow it would be like old and simpler times when John just followed him on cases and dated boring girls. Maybe it would be like after the marriage when they weren't talking and Sherlock couldn't help himself but get high. Maybe it would be like almost a day ago when John left without and clarification and worried him to no end and came back avoiding him at all costs.

But, hopefully, it would be like this, when they were kissing and hugging and happy with each other. Because maybe the thing was that they couldn't heal themselves alone. Maybe they could just fix each other's broken pieces, and it would be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you liked it! Reviews and feedbacks are welcome!


End file.
